


Five Times Christopher Pike Fantasized About Christine Chapel

by ilcuoreardendo



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Daydreaming, F/M, Fantasy, Knife Play, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And one time he didn't have to.</p><p>Originally posted at my <a href="http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>.</p><p> </p><p>[Fall 2015 <b>Unplanned hiatus.</b> Sorry readers. I've been waylaid by other fandoms, work, grad school, and having a hell of a time writing the last few pieces for this thing. I'm not throwing in the towel, but it may be a while, yet.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

The first time Christopher sees her, she’s sitting in the front row at the Greenwood Memorial Hall in Richmond, Virginia, wearing a skirt that keeps riding up her thighs and a green button down shirt that sets off the fresh peach color of her skin and the gold in her hair.

She has a beaten up PADD in her hand that she’s been using to tap out notes during M’Benga’s speech, and the stylus is making its way toward her mouth for the second time in as many minutes. Her lips curl around the end and he can just see the flicker of a tongue against the plastic before her cheeks hollow as she sucks.

And that sends a spark of heat straight to his groin and he shifts in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee, and turns his attention to the next speaker.

But his eyes keep finding their way back to the front row.

After the presentation is complete, there is a mix and mingle session for the presenters, the handful of Starfleet cadets that have accompanied them to answer questions, and the potential recruits.

Christopher sees her again, walking toward him with a shoulder-straight-eyes-forward-hard-heel-toe stride that hints at long shifts dealing with irascible personalities.

He follows the set of her shoulders down to the full breasts pressing against her shirt, the swell of her hips, the sway of her skirt around her knees, the flex of muscle in her thigh.

She smiles—a soft tilting of the corners of her mouth—as she passes him, gives a quick nod of her head in recognition and he turns, watching as she approaches M’Benga and asks a question about the Exobiology courses he’d mentioned during his lecture. And Christopher watches, still, as she smoothes the back of her skirt, fingertips skimming the pale skin of her thighs, short, tidy nails shining in the harsh overhead lights. 

Later, slouched in the overstuffed chair in his hotel room, feet flat on the floor, knees spread, and trousers open, thumb and fingers wrapped loosely around his cock, he imagines a smaller, well kempt hand stroking him.

Imagines the woman—Christine Chapel, he’d discovered from M’Benga—only this time with her shirt unbuttoned, giving a teasing glimpse of bare breasts, smooth stomach—and her hair down around her face as she kneels between his legs. Hair that he gathers in one hand and uses to pull her closer, guide her mouth to his cock. She wraps her lips around him, above the circular cage of her fingers, pink tongue flickering against the sensitive head.

Her free hand disappears between her legs. And he knows (because it’s his fantasy, after all) that she’s bare beneath that skirt, and warm, and slick and wanting. And she meets his eyes then, the corners of her mouth turning up slyly, before she laves her tongue over him and sucks hard…

And then he’s coming to the image of her drinking him down, his head thrown back against the chair, mouth open, a half-gasping chuckle in his throat when he realizes it’s the first time in years that he’s jerked off to something so tame as the thought of a blow job. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at my [Tumblr](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

As collisions go, he’s had much, much worse. Close brushes with space docks. A shuttle crash. Totaling a hover bike.

At least with this collision, he’s ended up with an armful of warm, soft woman. (And he’ll be damned if it wasn’t just the one that’s been intruding on his thoughts ever since he spotted her outside the medical building and remembered a night, over three years ago, when he’d dozed lightly in a hotel chair, sated, sticky and with the image of her in his mind.)

He catches himself against the door jamb, metal frame digging into his shoulder blade, and catches Chapel with his other arm—as she literally bounces off of his chest—keeping her from toppling to the ground.

With a groan, he straightens, pulling her up with him.

“Sir?” Chapel backs away, comes forward, comes half to a parade rest, reaches out for his arm.

He waves off her concern.

“At ease, Cadet. Just try to put the brakes on a little earlier next time. I’m all for beauty before age, but I’m not sure my bones can handle young women knocking me around in hallways.”

“Oh, sir, I’m sure your bones can handle more than you know.”

Her eyes go wide.

Silence grows.

Christopher feels his lips twitch. And is that the start of a blush on Chapel’s face?

“Sir,” she says, the word coming out as a quick breath. Then all he sees is the back of her as she disappears around the corner.

He considers the collision a few hours later, locked away in his office, as he’s pouring over reports on The  _Enterprise’s_  interior fittings in between his other—less interesting—administrative duties.

He thinks about the solid feel of her in his arms, against the length of his body.

Only, this time, instead of righting her and sending her on her way, he keeps his hands on her—one on her hip, the other curling over the delicate bones of her clavicle—and leans close to her ear.

“Your actions, Cadet,” he says, “could have resulted in the injury of a commanding officer. What do you have to say for yourself?”

She mumbles something and he catches the words “sir” and “sorry” and “won’t happen again.”

“I think you’re going to have to do better than that, Cadet.”

“Sir?”

That word from her mouth does things to him that should have him thrown before Starfleet Command.

“My office,” he says. He likes the way her eyes widen, the slow part of her lips, her tongue flicking out to wet them. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement on your punishment.”

And they will.

It will start with her bent over his desk, palms flat on the surface, legs kicked apart, red cadet skirt pushed up over her hips and her underwear a thin ring of fabric stretching around her knees.

And when her ass is reddened from the swats he’s given her, he’ll sit in the desk chair he’d pushed away to make room and will pull her down to join him. The contact on her abused skin will sting, burn, make her squirm and—

The notification tone on his computer rings. He has less than ten minutes to prepare for his next meeting.

Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his face and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

He wishes, not for the first time, that this office—like the one he’d had before Starfleet decided their ship captains deserved accommodations more fitting to politics and took out all the comforts of home—came equipped with a water shower.

He could use a cold drenching.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

 

For an otherwise reserved woman, Cadet Chapel has a sailor’s vocabulary and isn’t shy about using it. Especially when it comes to pain.     

“Motherfucker!” rings out across the room, bouncing off the floor mats and crashing into the high ceiling.

Christopher looks over from where he’s been stretching after his run on the indoor track, to see Chapel on the ground, flat on her back, another cadet—Johnson? Jordanson?—kneeling over her, his hands pressing her forearms to the mat. 

At the sight of the two of them, there’s an acidic burn down his spine and Christopher rolls his shoulders to get rid of it.

He watches Chapel rise, shake off the fall and nod at the cadet. Watches as the cadet attacks, as the two tumble to the mat again, a flurried tangle of limbs. Watches as she struggles underneath his weight.

They’re practicing a common ground defense tactic he demonstrates in his classes (though neither of them, that he can recall, have taken his close combat course). And it looks like Chapel’s not having a good time of it.

“You need to get him off balance,” Christopher says, and his own voice surprises him. So does the fact that he’s already walking toward the pair.

Jorgenson— _that’s_ the name—leaps to his feet and Christopher waves him down before he can come to full attention.

Chapel rises more slowly, a look of faint disgust on her face. Christopher doesn’t think it’s directed at him, so he offers to work with her, watches her cheeks, already pink from exertion, color even more.

But she nods and the two of them turn, simultaneously and effectively dismissing Jorgenson with their backs.

He pins her gently the first time—has a momentary struggle to keep his brain from running off to fantasy land—wanting to show her just how she should move her arms, her legs.

The second time is for keeps and he isn’t gentle; he takes her to the floor as he would an enemy combatant, holds her arms down with ease and she pushes at him, but he keeps his balance.

“No,” he says, after the first trial, “bring your arm in on the side where you want to throw. Don’t let me bridge.” And after the fourth time, when she’s succeeded in throwing her arms out on either side of her head, making him shift his weight to keep her against the floor, but is still not able to throw him off, he leans close—too close, his lips brush the delicate cartilage of her ear—and says, “You’ve got hips.  _Use_ them.” 

And she does. 

The next time he takes her to the ground, she pushes her head and shoulders toward him and when he shifts to compensate, she immediately shoots her arms out to the side of her head, pulls her left arm in, brings her right knee up and thrusts the blade of her hip into him, sending him tumbling to the mat on his side. 

She mimes the follow through—turning her body so she can go for the groin shot—and he catches her knee between his thighs, gives her a lazy grin.

Her hair is askew, strands tumbling out of the ponytail, and she’s panting for air; the sweat slicking her neck and shoulders is shiny and he can smell the musk of her from this range and— _he could lean forward and play his tongue across her skin, dip into the “V” where the bones of her throat meet, and scoop up the briny taste of her before taking her mouth and pushing her back onto the mat in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to throw him off—_ but he doesn’t do any of those things. 

He asks her to dinner instead.

And watches the slow slide of emotions play across her features, shuffling from momentary confusion, to eye-widening surprise, to—and he hopes he’s not misreading her, but really it hasn’t been  _that_  long since he’s asked a woman out—pleased acceptance. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, this is the self defense technique: [Pinned to the Ground](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EV0qq0kdAK8)


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

 

Christopher long ago honed the ability of parsing his attention.

As a starship captain, it’s a skill you have to learn. At any one time you have, at the least, three or four different people vying for your focus. Administrative yeoman needing your signature, science officers adjusting their analyses, engineers giving you sporadic updates.

So it’s with relative ease that he can keep one ear focused on the budgetary reports and news of the Academy restructuring, while another turns inward and replays his night with Christine.

After dinner, she’d taken him up on his invitation to come back to his apartment.

And he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t been a contingency of his to have her in his bed last night.

So he wouldn’t.

He’d been amazed at her responsiveness, the way she moved at the lightest of touches, shuddering beautifully, whispering his name, baring her throat for him.

On a whim—when he had her naked and stretched out beneath him—he pressed her arms over her head, fingers wrapping around her wrists.

A moment and a tug later, she realized he held her immobile and his grip wasn’t going to break. He heard her quick intake of breath, pulled back to see her eyes, wide and lazy with fattened pupils. And he’d grinned.

Sliding them both further up the bed, he wrapped her fingers around one of the wood rungs that made up the headboard.

“You’re going to keep your hands here. Christine. You won’t move them until I tell you to.”

Her “yes” had been faint. Breathless, expecting.

He kept a set of black restraints and a blindfold in his dresser drawer. They’d look wonderful on her pale skin…

He wouldn’t.

It was far too soon and even though she was turned on at being told not to move—he drew his fingers across her clit, her smooth labia, gathering moisture, relishing her heat—that didn’t mean she’d be o.k. with being truly immobilized.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from taking some creative license with last night’s reality…

_It’s with a fair amount of effort he pulls himself away from her warmth and wetness to open his bedside drawer. The soft blindfold slides easily over her hair, and he wraps the bands around her wrists, fastening them snugly and winding the nylon chord through the O-rings and around the headboard, finalizing the bonds with an expert knot._

_“Now,” he says, “you can move…”_

_And she does. Or tries to._

_“Christopher…” Her voice is hesitant, and he brushes his mouth over hers, shushing her._

_“Be still,” he says, voice pitched low, secretive. “I’m sure you know that removing one sense from a person will heighten their others. That’s all we’re doing…”_

_Pike has a Bajoran dagger in his collection. It’s a small, sharp, wonderfully balanced black handled blade. It fits perfectly in his hand and he can control it like an extension of himself._

_He’s placed it in his night stand drawer for easy access and as he reaches for it, he drops his head to whisper in her ear, the one word that she can say that will make it all stop._

_The shape of that word lingers at the corner of her mouth with the first stroke of the blade against her skin—feather light along the ridge of her clavicle, drawing a white score along her skin—but she licks her lips and says nothing._

_He repeats the action, along her breasts, the curve of her waist, her wide hips, the tender insides of her thighs. It’s there he adds the minutest amount of pressure—trembling himself as he listens to her gasp—not to cut, but to draw the blood to the surface. Creating fine red lines that he leans down and suckles in turn._

_The long, low moan she lets out—ending in a muttered “Fuck”—and the scent of her arousal makes him impossibly harder; it won’t take much effort at all to slide up and—_

“Captain Pike?”

Christopher blinks, raises an eyebrow. All eyes at the table have turned to him, faces expectant, but showing no sign of impatience. He clears his throat, refrains from shifting in his seat, and launches into the final status updates on the construction of the  _Enterprise_.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a bit of a hiatus as I haven’t written the next two parts; I only have them sketched out. I'm also trying to work on a backlog of original stuff and am currently spiraling down the rabbit hole with Supernatural (that is, angels are eating my brain)... 
> 
> But I'm going to an out-of-town wedding this weekend, so maybe my boredom will turn into writing productivity. One can hope.


End file.
